In The Pink
by Paisley the Flowergirl
Summary: A One-Shot explanation for Skittery's lovely pink longjohns- please enjoy and review!


An introduction: I would like to address two points of Newsies inquiry in this, my very first Newsies fic: Firstly, the case of Skittery's pink union suit, and, secondly, the identity of that little newsie in the orange shirt. But mostly the first one.

I will be the first to scream whenever Goorjious Michael Goorjian (Skittery, of course) comes onscreen. I think his cheery pink union suit (particularly when matched with his glum 'n dumb demeanor) merits an explanation. As for Pip, if you watch Newsies closely (shouldn't be too hard ) you will see this cute little newsie who's always wearing orange. He seems to have an adorable brother-like relationship with Skittery. I have named him 'Pip' for the purposes of this story, after the Sherlock Holmes story "The Five Orange Pips." Orange? Pip? Anyways, he looks like a Pip.

**I don't own any of the Newsies, alas. If I did indeed own them, I would make them turn my life into a fabulous musical with nonstop upbeat dance numbers. It would be truly magical.**

At about eleven o'clock, the fierce clouds that had been rolling over New York's skyline all morning suddenly burst. I stuffed my papes inside my vest and ran for the cover of the nearest awning. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking the pavement and the passersby.

"'Ey-a, Skitt!" I looked up to see Mush making his good-natured way through the crowd huddled under the storefront awnings. "We'se meetin' at Tibby's, iffin you wants ta come," he beamed, his ebullient spirit obviously not dampened by the fact that he and his papes were drenched. I followed his blue shirt through the grumbling mob as the wind picked up, sending torrents of icy water into the throng.

By the time we crashed into Tibby's, the usual crowd of newsies had usurped the entire café. The coat rack looked like it was about to collapse under the weight of a soggy mountain of jackets, shirts, and vests. I peeled off my shirt and vest, down to my habitual pink union suit on top, and added them to the pile. Though I doubted that they'd dry before the rain stopped, I had to get out of the sticky layers of wet wool. Hot dogs and bowls of soup were disappearing quicker than a lurid headline at a Bowery boxing match- like the time… well, you probably don't want to know.

"Mush! Skittery!" hollered Kid Blink, giving us both punches as we sidled past his seat near the door. "Ya somehow kept yaselves from drownin'? Had ta swim, didja? " The usual greetings between newsies ensued.

"My you're lookin' pink, my good man," Race drawled, real hoity-toity, around a cigar. He was leaning back in his chair, grimy boots propped on the tabletop. "If ya' ain't cyareful, you'se 'a cath da ol' moany-"

"Naw, he's not cold, he's jus' blushin'!" interjected Blink. "Did a poidy goil offah ya a spot undeh hoi umbrel_-lah_?" He said this last in a singsong voice; Blink was always searching for ways to rib us other newsies about the goils. A real Casanova, that one. I took the opportunity of their rollicking laughter to kick the legs out from under Race's chair, sending him sprawling, and to push Blink's face into his chowder. Serves 'em right; I was in no mood to be joshed over the color of my union suit, thank you very much.

I grabbed a seat towards the back of the room, ready for some relative relaxation before the rain let up and I had to get back to hawking the headlines. I had just pulled a book from my back pocket- it smelled like an ashtray and sported a suspicious beer stain, and had come from a trash heap, but was a pretty good book nonetheless- when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

I looked down to see Pip, one of the youngest Manhattan newsies, staring up at me with his typical look of blatant adoration. For some reason, the kid had latched onto me from his first day at Kloppman's boardinghouse. Hell, he'd even picked up a swagger stick somewhere, and now used it to fence with his buddies whenever the opportunity presented itself, just like Bumlets and I had done since we were kids.

"Whaddya want, Pip?" I asked, pretending to be annoyed.

The kid saw right through it and cracked a gaptoothed smile. He knew that I was pretty much sap and pulp and other dribbly things under my grouchy front, especially when it came to little kids.

Before Pip could reply, Cowboy stood up, and the room fell silent. He gave an authoritative tap on the window, indicating the deserted street and driving rain. "It don't look like this'll be lettin' up any time soon," he said, a smug grin sneaking its way across his face. "Might as well kick back an' take a load off 'til it cleahs up."

The café erupted in cheers, and Racetrack called for second rounds of sasparilla for all. I was about to get back to reading when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I remembered Pip.

"Whaddya want?" I repeated.

"Why d' ya always weah pink, Skittery?" he asked, honestly looking curious. The chaffing before must have piqued his interest.

A few of the other youngsters- Snipeshooter, Jake, Snitch, Itey- had gathered around. I guess it was story time.

I decided to change the subject. "I might ask ya the same question, Pip. I'm always sayin' ta' meself, 'Self, how'd 'e get that orange shirt?'" I gave him a poke for emphasis.

"Easy," he grinned. "It was tha' only ting in my size dem nuns a' th' orphanage had ta' give me!"

"Really? Well, same here," I replied, leaning back and returning to my book. Best to nip this thing in the bud before Race and Blink caught wind of it.

Too late.

"But ya fuhget, Skittsy boy, that ya didn't come from no orphanage," Race smirked. Apparently, he had been listening.

"Den where's 'e come from?" Pip and his minions were staring me down, waiting for an answer. Race was silently guffawing in the background. For a best friend, he sure knew how to get a guy's goat.

"Well, it's a long story, Pip," I said, trying to sound patient.

"Aw, we'se got all tha time in da woild," joined Specs, flipping his chair around and leaning towards my audience.

"I don't think-"

"C'mon, Skitt! Tell us!" prodded Pip.

"Tell what?" Jack sidled up, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nose.

"Skitt's gonna tell how he got them pink unda'weah!" crowed Itey.

"Now this, I gotta heah!" Blink pulled up a chair, and motioned for the rest of the newsies to circle up. I groaned.

"Guy's, there's nuthin' much ta tell-"

"But ya jus' said it was a long story," interjected Pip, sounding wounded.

"Please?" Mush was now lurking in the back of the group, and gave me a very earnest smile.

Mush's plea caught on. The kids in the front took up the "Please," while the older guys in back hooted until I finally rolled my eyes and said "Aw, fine."

"It all started back when I first became a newsie," I began.

"Yeah, when was tha'?" Cowboy asked through a yawn. "I seems ta' 'member ya always wearin' that pink getup-"

"Naw, he'd got 'imself that soitin shirt aftah' a while at Kloppman's," Race argued, nursing his cigar. "How long ago was tha'? When ya became a newsie, I means? Eight, nine yeahs ago?"

"Yeah, durin' the Typhoid epidemic in '91- that was in Oyster Bay-"

"Never would pegged ya fo' a Queens boy, Skitts!" interrupted Dutchy.

"I haven't been for 'bout a decade," I replied peevishly. "I went to live with my cousin and her family in Hell's Kitchen for a few months, but there got to be too many mouths to feed so I split for Kloppman's soon as I got the chance." Hell's Kitchen was right in our territory, but I had a feeling there was more ribbing about Queens in my near future. But, that little bit of history should have diverted their attention.

Wrong again.

"So, da pink suit." Cowboy picked up the conversation. "How'd ya get it?"

"You really wanna hear? I'm telling ya, it's not that interstin'…"

"Nonsense!" Race stood up on his chair, putting him at about eye level with some of the standing newsies. I resisted the urge to make a pithy remark, because I could tell that the great Mr. Higgins was about to begin a pedantic lecture.

"I knows da story of how mistah Skittery got 'is fem-i-nine suit. So gathah 'round." Race paused for effect. "It all stahted on his foist day sellin'. 'E was still a cute lil' guy back then, no bigger 'n a gnat's knee." Groans from the crowd.

"Well, ou' good friend Skitt made a bet that very foist day wit' one 'a dem big shot newsies. It stahted when dis big sluggah- Butch o' sumthin', 'is name was- noticed dis lil' kid lookin' aw' glum an' dumb- not too different from usual, eh?" This garnered a few punches. "Well dis Butch, 'e sez ta' Skittery, ''Ey kid, poik up o' you'll neveh sell a pape!' An' Skittery, bein' a noivous lil' buggah, 'e sez sumthin' rude an' contrary-like ta' dis Butch fella. An' Butch, 'e ain't accustomed ta' getting' anythin' but respect. So 'e sez ta Skittery, 'I'se gonna bet ya dat ya cain't outsell me tahday. An iffin ya don' outsell me, I'se-a gonna whoop your sorry hide! '" But Skitts, he's a quick-thinkin' kid, so he perks right up and sweet talks 'is way into anothah bet: if 'e gets outsold, 'e 'as ta wear some girly pink longjohns fo' a month!"

"Did 'e win?" asked Snipe, leaning forward.

"Of course 'e lost!" said Race. "'E got ridiculed somethin' fierce for a while. But aftah the month was up, Skittery found that them longjohns 'ad grown on 'im, so to speak. They became 'is trademark, and tha's why 'e wears 'em ta this day."

"Really?" Pip's eyes were as big as saucers.

"Nah, Race's just kiddin' ya-"

"Yeah! I'se knows da real story," Kid Blink interjected, a wolfish smile plastered across his face. All attention shifted to Blink. "Once upon a time, dere was dis most beauteous goil- in fact, the most beauteous goil in all of Man'attan- fo' whom Skitt'ry 'ad a righ' keen fancy."

Leave it to Blink to pin it on a goil. I rolled my eyes and tried to read.

"What was 'er name?" asked Mush, looking entranced.

"Dis most beauteous goil went by da name o' Iiiiiiii-rene." He drew out the 'I' for much longer than necessary. "Dis Irene, she loved da color pink. She woh' a pink dress evr'y day, an' pink ribbons in 'er haih, an' grew a gahden o' pink pansies on 'er win'owsill. An' da boys o' Man'attan, dey'd give 'er pink flowahs an' love tokens like pink shootah mahbles, and one even gave 'er a pink silk all da way from China!"

"Goils don't like shootah mahbles, even if dey is pink!" scoffed Jack. The younger boys in the front nodded automatically; Cowboy was, after all, the expert on all things having to do with goils. He was the only one of us newsies with a steady sweetheart.

"Well, Iiiiiiii-rene did!" pouted Blink. "Anyways, Skittery one day professed 'is undyin' love fo' dis goil, but she said nuttin' mo' den kiss me 'and an'den she wen' ou' west ta find a man wit' propoity ta marry. But she was tragically gored by a wild buff'lo, and died befo' she even-"

"Where? Where was da buff'lo?" asked Jake, looking morbidly fascinated.

"Why Buff'lo, New Yoik, ya block'ead," replied Blink.

I cringed and set my book down. Sometimes, I wondered where Blink had learned all he had- geography, for instance.

I laughed, harder than necessary, in response to Blink's tale. "You lie like a rug, Kid."

"Oh yeah? Then 'ow'd it go?" he asked, with a belligerent thrust of his chin.

"I knows how it went."

This last came from a shifty figure that seemed to appear out of the shadows. Skinny, lanky, and authoritative, with a crop of dirty blond hair and huge eyes, it could be none other than Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn.

"Ey-a Spot, how'd ya get 'ere?" laughed Cowboy, greeting him with a spit and a handshake. Murmurs of salutation rumbled through Tibby's, though it seemed that everyone was just as shocked as I was at seeing Spot here in Manhattan. Though he liked hanging out with our group just fine, you never quite knew what was going on with that kid. A real odd duck, as Race had once referred to him.

The murmuring died down. "So about that…pink," Spot began. "It all started on a real rainy night. Not to different from today, eh, Skittery?"

I didn't want to contradict Spot, who had a hairtrigger temper. "It's daytime right now, Spot," I replied, leaning back in my chair.

"Aww, whatevah. So it was a reeeeal dark night, and cold an' wet, too. Little Skittery here, 'e was makin' 'is way home to Kloppman's, and ya know what 'e did? 'E got lost in tha dark, that's what 'e did." Spot began to flip his gold-topped cane around. "'E was jus' a little bugger, was Skittery. An' 'e was wearin' his brand new Union suit."

"The pink one?" asked Pip. Eyes like saucers.

"Nah, it was white," said Spot, casting a sidelong glance to and fro. "Pure white."

The younger newsies exchanged excited looks. I think that they could tell as well as I that this story was headed no place good.

"So Skittery's walkin' outside of a bar when BOOM!" Spot's low tone suddenly jumped to the scale of naval cannons, making everyone jump. "A door in front of 'im busts open, an' into the street rolls a brawl of truly… epic… proportions." Spot smiled while including pauses between each word. Now he had a captive audience. "Lil' Skit gets caught up in the brawl! He's clawing and he's punching an' he's tryin' ta get out, but he's caught! Wham! He gets a tooth knocked out by a rogue fist! BANG! He get kicked upside the jaw with someone's ol' shillelagh stick! Blood's spurtin' everywhere by the time he extracts 'imself from this horrible mess."

The audience was struck into repulsed silence. Pip looked ill, and Boots (who, as a rule, can't stand blood) had already hightailed it out of there.

Spot smiled a vampiric smile and continued. "But not tha' much got on 'is union suit. Just enough to leave some real obvious stains on tha' pure white I was tellin' ya about. So what does our pal Skit do? 'E goes and gets some cheap laundry to dye his unnerweah red, to hide the stains. An' oveh time, whaddaya know, that red dye fades and becomes the lovely shade o' pink you'se sees today."

Everyone gave Spot a stirring standing ovation, and he took a few hammy bows before melting into the shadows once more.

"So which was it, Skittery?" Pip asked.

The whole room was hanging on my every word. Might as well take advantage of it. I smiled, lazily, and took a pull on my sarsaparilla. Silence. You could've heard a cricket chirp. I gave a drawn-out yawn.

"So?" prompted Mush, looking like he was about to die of anticipation.

"You fellas wanna know the real story behind this pink suit?" I asked, rhetorically. I got nods in return.

I gave another pause for effect.

"I said, ya wanna know the real reason?"

Tension!

"It was on sale." I downed the last of my drink, pocketed my book, and vaulted over the table to get to my still dripping clothes. I was followed by a series of groans and boos as I strode out into the sudden sunshine.

As the door to Tibby's swung shut behind me, I heard Race say, "I guess we'll never know."


End file.
